


Under Our Care

by vaultbug



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Clan of Two + One Droid, Family Fluff, Gen, Season 1 + 2 Spoilers, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, To Nurse and Protect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21996265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultbug/pseuds/vaultbug
Summary: "Has the child eaten?"The Mandalorian and Karga looked up, both a picture of confusion. "Has he?" Karga asked the Mandalorian. The man only grunted."If my nursing protocol did not forbid it, you both would be out that window," IG-11 deadpanned.---Sometimes, a clan can be two, their friends and their helpful murderbot-nurse droid.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yofa & IG-11, The Mandalorian & IG-11 (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 79
Kudos: 632





	1. First Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life with Kuiil.

When he awoke in Kuiil’s arms, the unit known as IG-11 had not been able to talk or move or process more than a single optical eye and the weakest auditory sensor. In fact, the unit could go as far to say he hardly recalled much at all. Although his memory processor was able to save his first memory, the processor had been a fraction of what it was now. Details such as colour had been unimportant and the focus of his optic had been hazy. The file itself was nearly corrupt.

What he did remember was vague; fingers, deft and nimble, swiping in and out of internal wiring. Alerts, telling him of fractured joints and destroyed external plating. Unable to move. Unable to ping his lower half. 

He raised his optic to look at the person repairing him.

The fingers paused. “So you’re online,” he remembered Kuiil saying -- being unknown at that moment, processor designating him an engineer. “Age hasn’t made me lose my tricks, then.”

Then the memory cut off.

* * *

(The assistance protocols were installed shortly after.)

* * *

The first time he was active -- fully active, full optics and audials, speech unit at the ready -- he had said, “Are you my master?”

Kuiil -- the engineer -- had only glared at him. “Master. I am no one’s master and no one shall be my master,” the Ugnaught sniffed. “You are my partner, a friend for assistance. You may call me Kuiil.”

“Kuiil.” The IG unit said. “I am IG-11, a combat-series -- no.” His voice glitched out. “Nursing. Assistant. Combat. Nursing. Assistant. Combat. Unknown. Designation unknown. The manufacturer’s protocol says there is something wrong with this unit. Resetting.”

A hand touched his shoulder. “Do not reset,” Kuiil spoke firmly, and IG hesitated. “You are my assistant. Now. Let’s get you walking.” The Ugnaught stretched out a hand.

IG-11 did not reset and took it.

The months following were harsh. The physical labour to relearn how to function took time and patience, and Kuiil took to it like a patient grandfather. After the first week, he was able to walk, and the following weeks learned to cook and clean. Vases stopped shattering under his servos.

Yet it was not easy. The command -- the _commands_ , as he understood they were separate and yet so intermixed in his processor -- sometimes contradicted. While his secondary would urge him down actions of violence or physical solutions, the assistant primary commands were passive and tolerating. Eventually as the weeks passed, they merged.

Kuiil noticed. “You have a personality,” he noted one time as IG tried to grab another cup and it shattered between his servos. The secondary commands pinged him of the uselessness of these drills but he ignored it. “I can see it, below the tin surface.”

“I have not been programmed with a personality,” IG-11 said back. 

“Yet you have become frustrated,” Kuiil noted and pointed.

He looked. His other hand had squeezed a hand-shaped indent in the table. That had not been his intent. Had that been his secondary programming? Had he violated his primary? What had he done?

"So I have," he said.

“Hm,” Kuiil snorted but said nothing more.

* * *

Though Kuiil's insistence on IG developing a personality did not explain all the quirks that came with being a nursing assassin unit. More frequently came events when he would do things as if second nature. When the Jawas came too close one evening to their camp he found himself outside rummaging in their workshop's containers to pick up two blasters that fit too comfortably in his servos. He did not need to use them though. Kuiil came out quick enough to chase the Jawas away with a few choice words. 

"What have you got there?" The Ugnaught said when he came close and blanched when he saw the two blasters. He blinked once, then shooed IG back into the workshop. "Where did you find those?"

"In your container. Who do these belong to?" When Kuiil did not respond IG-11 looked back to the Ugnaught. "Are they not yours?"

The Ugnaught took the blasters from him, as if almost repulsed by their presence. "They are yours," he said eventually. He did not elaborate as he packaged them back up. 

IG-11 stored that information for later use and did not ask anything more on it.

It had brought clarity however, to other things in the vapour farm. Like how Kuiil would sometimes stare as he would clean and oil knives with mechanical precision. How he would never let IG-11 wander too far out into the desert, in fear of Jawas or perhaps that IG would stumble onto something that would bring only more questions. That the container with the blasters was left unlocked, an invitation for IG-11 to investigate it any time, as if Kuiil was testing him to see if hidden memories would arise.

Yet he did not confront Kuiil about it. He had come to an understanding that whoever he was now, he had not been that droid before. The droid before had been built for different reasons and failed at his design. He would be better with these new additions he had been installed with. He would be different.

 _Kill and obey_ , insisted the secondary commands.

 _Help and protect_ , he thought.

* * *

“Do you remember who you were?” His friend asked one day out of the blue. 

They were fixing his roof. His servos were not yet fine-tuned enough to assist with the welding but he was stronger than the Ugnaught and that meant he was able to hold the plating steady as Kuiil replaced the aluminum roof shingles. Together they worked in a fervid silence, only interrupted by Kuiil’s requests for tools or to hold the roof a little higher. 

Except now. IG reconsidered the question. The query was unfamiliar. Who he was had been destroyed, and the only monument to his memories of that time were the welding lines that still stitched his central processing unit together. Even now he sometimes found himself believing that the nursing protocols were always a part of his programming. 

“I am your assistant,” he responded. 

“That is correct,” Kuiil said, then heavily sighed. “That is enough for today. Let us retire.”

The Ugnaught dropped the topic for the time it took to pack up his supplies, but as soon as the last of the roof shingles had been tucked away under tarps to dissuade Jawas, he turned back around and eyed 11 with purpose. Still, he did not speak until they were back inside his hut, he was seated at their table and IG had prepared tea. 

“You do not recall,” he said. 

IG read the tones of his friend’s voice and concluded it was not a question. Still, Kuiil waited as if it had been one. He bent down and set the tea tray at the table before responding. “The original intent of this droid has been overridden or replaced with additional programming. What memories this unit had before has been wiped with these changes.”

“And so you do not remember.” 

IG-11 paused before pouring his friend some tea. “I cannot remember what has never been there.” He said finally.

Kuiil eyed him again. There was that look again, something IG could not pinpoint as a specific emotion. A mixture of many, perhaps, that only projected _gentle_. “Are you curious about knowing you had a past before?”

That stopped him. Curiosity. It was a concept for organics, not robotics. “I have never been programmed with desire or curiosity,” he noted. “I am only grateful I am active once more.”

“It is one thing to be grateful and another to be ignorant.” Kuiil sighed. “I must tell you. Then, you will understand if _others_ come and their reactions are --” and the word was emphasized, “ _odd._ ”

The Ugnaught took a sip of tea before starting. “You are an IG-series droid.”

He knew that, as he knew most likely the explanation to come. He did not interrupt though. Kuiil, he had noted, was particularly long-winded and the assistant protocols dictated it was _rude_ to speak through a partner or master no matter the circumstance. 

“There is only one thing an IG-series is made to do.” Kuiil raised himself from his seat and walked over to the nearby window. Eyeing the horizon, the Ugnaught seemed to shrink. “Kill.”

(To assault. To antagonize. To destroy. Mercilessly. Efficiently. That was the way.)

(To _protect,_ the other programming interjected.)

“I found you in the wreckage of a camp, after the passing-by of a...bounty hunter.” Kuiil continued. “The camp had been destroyed. Blaster fire. You had taken a close-range shot to the head.”

It was alien to hear things that one had not been witness to. Still, the IG unit understood that this was necessary for Kuiil to tell him, both for him and the Ugnaught. What granted him an understanding of internal protocols could also grant his friend peace of mind. An equal benefit.

“I brought you back here. Some of your old memories were still there, a black-box feature. You had attempted to kill a bounty, were terminated shortly after.”

Kuiil hesitated. “Those memories were deleted shortly after I initiated repairs.”

( _I deleted them_ , IG understood.)

When IG did not react he continued slowly. “You were nearly beyond repair, so I experimented to see if I could repair you for your services. Your previous coding seized onto my experimentations and took it in. That is why there may be...gaps, in your protocols. Gaps, where they shouldn’t be. You are still a work-in-progress.”

“There are no gaps,” IG-11 said back. Kuiil raised an eyebrow. “Only contradictions in my code. My system has integrated whatever programming you wired me with and adapted, but still, there are paradoxes that must be overwritten or avoided. But you have meshed the two well. You have my gratitude.”

“You are very welcome,” Kuiil said back. IG detected there was relief as well as hope in his voice. “Now. I think I shall rest. It has been a long day.”

The Ugnaught set the cup down. “I have spoken,” he concluded.

The conversation was dropped from then on.

* * *

Kuiil’s explanation helped. It made sense now -- how being protector and assaulter, killer and healer would cause such confliction inside him that needed rearranging. IG took it upon himself to improve and adapt to those changes. He must be efficient if he was to take on the additional commands Kuiil had given him. 

And as always, Kuiil was perceptive. The night he began those internal changes the Ugnaught caught him in his workshop, standing in the doorway with confusion on his face. “What are you doing?” His friend asked, quiet. IG detected mistrust in his voice.

“I have been altering my programming in order to compensate for these contradictions in my code,” IG stated. 

Kuiil made a hum in his throat. 

“My nursing subroutines say I must rewrite myself to adapt and replace any outdated protocols, whether be nursing, health or my own internal systems. As you made my assistant protocols override my manufacturers, it takes priority.”

“So you found a loophole.”

“Many.” 

The Ugnaught sniffed. “Many?” He did not sound pleased. “Have you been altering your basic programming?”

“I am unable to do so.” IG said. “To do so would contradict both primary and secondary commands. I can only make current standing ones more specific or detailed, or add additional commands.” He added. “As well, I’ve been attempting to integrate a bartender processor from the strands you have collected from Empire droids. So far I have learned how to make margaritas. One can only make tea so many times, you know.”

Kuiil blinked. Had his joke fallen flat? IG would have to reconsider how he delivered it. “My only request is that you do not change the intent of the programming I placed within you.” He said. “You are a protector. You are only to defend, not to intentionally seek out to kill.”

“Understood.” IG-11 then considered. It would be appropriate if he asked now. “There is another thing.”

“Go ahead.”

“In the months since my activation, you have called me a friend. However, our relationship status is not that. My nursing protocols continually pings you as _family_.” When Kuiil did not speak he continued. “May I update you to family?”

There was a noise. The IG unit turned himself to look and was startled, as the code had not anticipated the emotion in the eyes of the Ugnaught. 

“Of course. I would be honoured.” Kuiil said. The corner of his mouth was upturned. 

“It is done.”

Kuiil made to leave but then paused. He overlooked the workshop and then pointed to the corner. “There are untouched droid pieces there, from the Republic and the Empire. Some still have their nursing commands there. Some are miscellaneous. Use them as you see fit.”

“Thank you.”

The Ugnaught walked away, but not before IG heard him sniff. “Margaritas,” he said, the closest thing to amusement he had ever heard from his friend.

Not friend. IG-11 added an update to that part of his programming. _Family._

* * *

Then the Mandalorian came, and Kuiil was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished Season 2, so hopefully my updates will be less scattered! A note: this follows direct canon so this fic really is just a parallel universe version of season 2. Of course, since IG-11 is alive, there's going to be big differences in plot. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Translations:
> 
> https://www.pixiv.net/novel/show.php?id=12390955#1


	2. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How they survive.

There was a fluctuation in his memories following Kuiil's death.

It was different than the data failure of his first memory. IG-11 could recall every moment that had transpired from Kuiil’s death, from the colour of the Mandalorian’s eyes to the weight of the child nestled against his chest. Yet the files still felt corrupt, skipping forward and backward through the moments of the day, differing in time-skips every time he went back to reflect. Always it concluded with him standing here on the Mandalorian’s ship, holding the child and seeing the Mandalorian limp along the side of his aircraft. 

Grief, IG-11 understood, was like broken fragments of memory. Patients of grief recalled events before, during and after the death of a close one, often disoriented and out of order but connected all the same. Grief would cause memory gaps or a sense of numbness that could last weeks or months from the marked death. That was how an organic felt.

Droids, however, were built to be different. An IG-unit was not meant to run programs mimicking organic emotions. It would result in complications. If a patient was lost it was a failed statistic on a nursing droid’s record. If a target was killed, it was increased hunter reputation amongst the members of the Guild. A droid had no need to mourn.

Kuiil’s death marked a concluded file in his mind. It did not, _should not_ mean anything to IG-11.

Yet.

He felt as if the droid that had sped down the alleys of the village and shot down half the troopers on duty was not the same droid that had boarded the Mandalorian’s ship with Kuiil. Likewise, the droid that killed the troopers was not the same droid who accepted the Mandalorian’s job. Altogether, it did not feel like the droid who had progressed through the day was himself. If he was to diagnose himself like he would an organic patient, the disconnection he felt from this morning to now could be a sense of numbness that plagued his processor. _Grief,_ then, could be an explanation of why his memories were so corrupt, why he was acting in this manner. He could not feel grief, but his body could fabricate it.

Perhaps then, even in death Kuiil had helped him understand emotion.

The thought pleased him.

The child giggled in his arms and reached out. IG-11 allowed them to poke and play with the wires on his chest. There was little chance the kid would pull one out and even if so, it would not hurt them. 

And for the fourth time today, he opened up the memory files and remembered.

* * *

File two.

Early morning, still on Arvala-7.

IG-11 listening in as the door shut behind him from the Mandalorian’s cockpit. Hearing Mando snap:

“Under no circumstances does that thing leave the ship.”

IG-11 paused and reran the voice through his analyzer again. Stress indicators put an emphasis on unusually high annoyance and fear, most likely amplified by the Mandalorian’s biological requirements. Scratching out waste and lack of sleep, the logical reason the Mandalorian had heightened emotional responses was due to hunger. He was hungry.

Yet the Mandalorian had spoken the opposite. He was not hungry. So, it made little sense why his emotions would be so heightened. IG-11 reflected some more and consulted what Kuiil would say on this paradox. Kuiil had said Mandalorians were prideful folk in legend. He also said that this particular Mandalorian was impatient, prideful and a terrible, terrible _liar_.

That made sense.

(“I’m not hungry.”)

 _Liar,_ the droid thought but followed the command anyways.

* * *

File three. Nevarro.

IG-11 had never interacted with anyone besides Kuiil before.

He had tried, at least. Before Kuiil’s termination, back when they were home he had reached out to offer tea to the rest of Kuiil’s friends. That was met with hostility but IG did not fault the Mandalorian, not after Kuiil’s secondary explanation. There was an unknown history between him and Mando that Mando knew. IG-11 could not blame him for the mistrust. The Mandalorian had shot him before for a reason.

The others...they were unknowns. He treated them with the same respect as he would treat Kuiil, but they were fearful as well. He did not fault them for that as well. The Mandalorian seemed to be the Captain and if the Captain was mistrusting, the crew would follow. 

There were protocols for easing tension within groups, just as there were protocols for murdering and protocols for healing. IG had been built for bounty hunting and then repurposed for nursing; both two directives that required negotiation and bedside manners. Together, they both told IG the best course of action to earn the trust of the Mandalorian and his friend was to follow orders. Through obedience, the trust would be gained. 

They did not say how to deal with indecision.

He stood frozen on the edge of the ship watching the horizon; seeing the distant crumpled form of Kuiil and the lingering dust trails of the speeder-bikes vanish in the distance. One of his hands was curled into a fist. He did not move.

The Mandalorian shouting over the comms. “Do you copy, Kuiil?” He yelled. His voice was harsh and full of worry. “Kuiil! Kuiil, _respond_.”

IG-11 knew what to do but still had to pause to argue with the part of him that had him rooted to the spot. If he left to pursue the child the ship would be left unprotected and liable to be looted or commandeered. Likewise, if he left the ship he would be disobeying the Mandalorian’s indirect order to remain put. His reputation with the ex-bounty hunter would be significantly diminished. He had his orders. He had to obey them, or be labelled untrustworthy.

Worrying about his reputation would kill the child.

“Do you copy, Kuiil?”

He began to walk.

* * *

File four.

He had never killed anyone since his reactivation.

He assumed the droid before had. That was his design and his previous occupation; and even though Kuiil had removed and replaced parts of him, the unit’s internal clock put IG-11 at the age of three and a half years, plenty of years to have executed countless bounties. Along that, there were the Mandalorian’s reactions that hinted his capabilities at murder. IG-11 had been shot in the head for a reason, and he did not think it was because the Mandalorian had put two into him on sight. The way he spoke of IG was fear, and how he insisted the unit stay away from the child spoke enough volumes. He had killed before.

It was why now, staring at the scout trooper IG-11 did not hesitate to prime his hunter capabilities alongside his nursing. The two melded cleanly, and as the scout trooper pointed the gun to his head his primary and secondary directives framed the man with countless weaknesses, coating the man green with points of interest. He was leaning too forward for a stable stance. His posture was sloppy. He was confused, meaning it would be easy to cripple and disable him. The way he held his blaster indicated he was not prepared to fire and hit. The blaster itself was too close, meaning it would be easy to take the man’s wrist and _snap_.

Choices, choices.

He went with the wrist.

After it was done he rose up from the corpse of the scout trooper and marched over to the child. Upon inspection, they were hurt, but nothing rest and food would not fix. 

The satisfaction in killing the two was still there when he boarded the bike. The hunter part of him, the original manufacturer’s intent thrummed with a violence that he had known himself capable, but never envisioned himself utilizing. He wondered if every kill had been like this while bounty hunting; clean without injuries or bystander casualties. If every time he had taken up a target it was a simple kill, an easy mark. IG-series were built to be hunters. It was easy to regress back into the role.

He did not know how to feel about that.

He started up the speeder-bike, then looked down at the child nestled in the satchel. They met his gaze, uncomprehending. The protocols told him they would barely remember this moment when they grew older. 

“That was unpleasant,” he told them anyways. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He was still not sure if he was talking to them, or himself. 

* * *

File five was full of fire and the Mandalorian’s trembling hands. Both coated in beskar steel, strong and sturdy. One hand clutched to the side of the rubble he laid on. The other clutched the gun between them. 

“Try it and I’ll kill you,” he heaved.

IG-11 watched the barrel and waited. He left his hand under the helmet.

“It is forbidden.” The Mandalorian heaved. The gun swayed between them, uncertain.“No living thing has seen me...since I swore - _swore_ the Creed.”

It was a simple enough answer. “I am not a living thing.”

There was silence. Time was passing quickly and a nurse droid could not wait for indecision when it came to a head injury. Slowly, IG lifted the helmet, still waiting for the gun to fire.

It did not.

The one known as Din Djarin -- ill-tempered, mistrusting Mandalorian -- looked up at him and his eyes wavered, terrified. IG did not understand why, but did not inquire. There was documentation in his mind that read that sometimes patients lashed out when asked questions or pressed for history about themselves. The Mandalorian was a strange, unpredictable man. IG would unravel that mystery slowly.

He was well-groomed though, for one who never removed his mask. Percentages sometimes said Mandos often neglected bodily functions in pursuit of prey. IG was satisfied to know at least this Mandalorian understood that the body had to be as healthy as the mind to function.

Fear, though. He marked that away for later, then did a scan for any other physical injuries, complaints or concerns. There were a few, but nothing important for now. As an afterthought, he opened a file in his mind for the Mandalorian.

The Mandalorian still looked stunned, almost shell-shocked. His eyes were locked onto IG’s optics as if waiting for the other foot to drop and something to happen. IG brought his servo closer to Mando’s head and began the healing process.

“This is a bacta-spray,” he told him. “It will heal you in a manner of hours.”

Din Djarin stared and a recognition came into his eyes. The gun slowly dropped.

IG considered that a success.

* * *

File six. Sewers.

“It is the only way,” IG said.

“No.” The Mandalorian's hand reached out and touched his shoulder. IG stilled but his nursing protocols said that _touch_ was okay and so he did not engage any defence mechanisms. “We need you. There... _is_ another way.”

“Do all droids have similar manufacturers protocols to you?” Cara asked. She was eyeing the droid at the back, brow furrowed in thought. 

The droid beeped back.

“They say no,” IG translated. The edge of the tunnel was still drifting closer, despite all the efforts of the droid to slow them down. “It is decided. I must --”

“Your grenades!” Karga exclaimed suddenly. All except IG jumped and turned to him angrily. He flushed but continued. “Mando, your grenades -- is it possible, somehow, with -- with Mr. Beep back here to…?” He mimicked an explosion with his fingers. 

They all looked to the droid. It beeped again, not understanding. IG wondered what intelligence it had been programmed with. Doubtedly little to none. Boat droids were walking GPS’ at most.

“That could work,” he begrudgingly agreed. “However, it still would be easier if I was to -”

“You are _not_ self-destructing,” the Mandalorian interrupted. His hand twitched against IG’s plating. “We need you.”

“You may all die,” IG said. “The child will not be safe with these odds. It will be easier if I --”

“ _Do not self-destruct,_ ” the Mandalorian demanded and somehow, IG felt like he already knew those words. He reset his optics, stayed quiet and the Mandalorian sighed, pulling his hand away to give IG the child. “Please. Look after him. It will be easier for all of us.”

The child stared. IG took him in his servos and brushed one digit along one of his ears. 

“Better not screw this up, Mando,” Dune muttered and hoisted the machine gun on the right.

* * *

File seven. Outside.

They survived.

Barely, a part of IG-11 sniped but he waved it away to finally stop his crouch from over the child to move across the ship to assist the Mandalorian. The man was wavering at the peak of the boat, beskar suit and his blaster smoking from fire and firing. 

“I’m fine,” he coughed as IG-11 made to check his chest. The blasts from the troopers had only bruised the man, not broke ribs. Good. 

Karga was fine. The man was trembling but overall okay, more adrenaline than injury. “Check on her,” he said when IG-11 tried to assess him and waved to Cara. “Trooper got her.”

IG-11 span and saw Karga was right. Cara had her hand clutched against her leg, and her face was pale in exertion. He bent down to take a look and found her leg just barely clipped. The flesh was pink and crusty. 

"You are lucky," he told her. "What colour hit you? Blue or red?"

“ _Goddamn troopers_ ,” she spat at the corpses lining the river. IG-11 waited. "Blue, blue hit me. Any of them left?"

"That's it," the Mandalorian tried to say.

That was around the time the TIE fighter's shadow fell on them.

The child was the priority. He did not hesitate and dove for the kid, around the same time the Mandalorian dove. They both ended crouched over the child, beskar steel and armoured substrate shielding from the airstrike. Both Cara and Karga ducked down and IG pulled Dune toward him. They hunched over and then the airstrike was over and the ground stopped shaking. Dune was grunting in pain against his chest.

“Where is my jetpack?” The Mandalorian demanded of him. The aircraft came back around and shrieked as it passed over them, thunderclaps of blaster fire landing harmlessly to the side. When it passed the Mandalorian thrusted a finger between them. “Where is it?”

“By the child. You are not allowed --”

“The child will _die_ ,” Mando grunted and avoided his servo. He bent and scooped the pack up, then attached it to his back. IG-11 made to grab him but between the conflicting priorities of protect the child and nurse the Mandalorian, he was forced to let the man slip out of his reach. “Stay here and guard them.” He then commanded and --

(Kuiil had told IG stories of Mandalorians back on Arvala-7. He had many stories he told IG. The droid was still not sure what the point of telling the stories had been if Kuiil had told them as a distraction when IG-11 broke another cup and squeezed a dent into another table, or reminiscing of his own memories. He had listened anyways. He told stories of Mandalorians against those who used an almost-magic style of fighting, Mandalorian modern technology versus what should have been forgotten. “Mandalorians were able to utilize many combat techniques with their technology,” the Ugnaught had told him. “Jetpacks were especially favoured.”)

The Mandalorian soared into the air and flung out the grapple at the same time, and both TIE fighter and man went rocketing across the sandy dunes and up high in the sky. IG-11 wondered what the objective of Mando was; then understood as an explosive blew up after the trailing wisps of the fighter. 

“He is going for the wing,” he alerted the rest of the group. 

"No shit," Dune breathed.

“Oh, what the _hell_ ,” Karga crowed and they watched the TIE fighter go down in flames.

* * *

File one was a long time ago still on Arvala-7.

Kuiil, hovering over his legs, fixing a wire IG had severed accidentally. The secondary coding insisting the damage was minimal, that he could still walk. Kuiil swatting him back down. Silence, as the wire was replaced and he attempted to stand back up. Kuiil, again, swatting him down in irritation. 

“Stubborn droid,” he scoffed with humour. “Stay down. I am not done.”

“I can walk,” IG said. “That is sufficient for now. We can repair me later when the work is done.”

“Not that soon,” Kuiil said. Paused, and then huffed. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

Cara Dune stayed begrudgingly still as he addressed her wounds. “How long will it take to heal?” She asked and there was impatience in her voice.

“Not long. An hour at most.” IG answered. The bacta-spray traced over her leg and she grunted. She was lucky to have only been clipped. Her losing a limb would be traumatic to the child and to the team’s efficiency, not to mention the physical labour of biotic limb replacement.

“That’s good,” Dune huffed. “Very good. I got the rest, droid, let me up.” 

IG pushed her gently back down with an insistent hand. “Not that soon.” He said. Paused, and then added. “You’re welcome.”

Dune muttered something that sounded like, _damn droids._

* * *

The child made a noise in his arms and IG-11 snapped out of his thoughts.

The Mandalorian huffed up the steps and then paused, watching IG-11. To anyone else, the man would seem emotionless but IG detected hints of weariness in his posture. Being flung off a TIE fighter would do that to an organic, even a Mandalorian notoriously known for his combat abilities. 

He spoke before whatever the Mandalorian was thinking came out. “Here is the child,” he said and held out the kid. The child squirmed, disrupted from their exploits with his wires. 

The Mandalorian took them hesitantly. “Thank you,” he said and his voice sounded choked. 

“The spray has partially healed your concussion by now. Overnight it should be fully healed.” IG-11 continued. “Still, I left a portion of mine on the ship in case the treatment did not work.” He paused. “You’re welcome,” he added.

The Mandalorian hesitated some more. Then, cupping the child against his arm he exhaled. IG-11 read the man had more to say and stayed still. “Are...are you okay?” The Mandalorian finally asked, gruff. 

IG-11 paused. One of his optics fell onto Kuiil’s gravesite. Then, he said, “I believe so. I have no need of external repairs and will be able to remove any dents the blasters made on my armour.”

“That’s not what I...will you be okay? Here?” The Mandalorian gestured out towards the distant village. Karga and Dune had already made their way back. “The Guild is dangerous.”

“There are worse occupations.”

Mando huffed at that, agreeing. He turned to leave.

“Before you go,” IG-11 said and the Mandalorian stilled. He detected he had all the man’s attention. “I would like to thank you. The burial you gave Kuiil was unexpected but necessary. I am grateful you’ve done so. I doubt I would have been able to honour him the way you have.”

The Mandalorian did not say anything for a moment. Then he spoke and his voice was quiet. “You were close to him.” 

“Before he was terminated, Kuiil allowed me to update him as family.” IG-11 paused and glanced back to the gravesite. He wondered then if this was what grief felt like for a droid. “He reactivated me and am the reason I stand here now functioning. My gratitude for him will always be there. Again, thank you Mandalorian. I wish you the best on your travels with the young one.” 

There was nothing more to say. He made to depart.

“Wait,” the Mandalorian said.

He turned back around. The ex-bounty hunter breathed a long note, then gestured to the quiet child. “I need...help,” he muttered. “I do not have the skills necessary to...care for him or protect him when we are on the ship. There are jobs I have to take that require me away and I can’t take him with me on them. You have the skills, know them better than me.”

“Are you offering me a job?” IG-11 asked. 

The Mandalorian stared at him, then sighed. There was amusement in it. “Yes, I’m offering you a job. Do you want it or not?”

He considered. Life in the village could work, but IG-series were isolationists and best worked in teams of three or four. Even if he stayed, there was no guarantee Dune or Karga would assist him or bail him out of tough situations. Dune did not seem the type that tolerated droids and Karga would more than likely have him back on bounty missions. 

The child raised their hands towards him and babbled incoherently.

“I would like that.” He said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The red versus blue blaster fire is completely bullshit, do not take that as canon because I am STILL not sure what the difference between them is -- thus, in this fic I'm regarding that blue blasters use different crystals and thus, different effects when shot.


	3. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjusting to one another.

IG-11 thought: _this is a bad idea._

The ship broke out of hyper-speed with a sharpened crack – the Mandalorian grunted as they jolted to a stop, engines humming quiet. Before them the glow of Nevarro had turned to the grey of the mining planet Ore-1 and her fellow moons, sober compared to how light glistened off Nevarro.

The Mandalorian did not seem intent on stopping at Ore-1 though. He turned the yokes sideways and the ship careered off on another open expanse of stars. Letting the engines warm back up the man prepared for another hyper jump. As he leaned sideways to flip a switch on his left, IG saw the man’s neck, a subtle red trickling down from underneath the helmet. An organic wouldn’t have spotted it.

Now that _was_ a concern. As much as IG understood the necessity of escaping Nevarro and that the smouldering ruins of the TIE fighter meant danger, something in his processor murmured, _is_ _hyper-jumping_ _really a good idea with a healing concussion?_ As the trickle of blood slid down the back of the Mandalorian’s neck and leaked into his tattered cape, IG concluded it was not.

“Captain,” he said and took a step forward.

Mando jolted upright and his left hand shot up over the side of his hip where his blaster was. The man had the gun halfway out before some sort of recognition came over his body and he froze mid-motion. Then came the breathing, a harsh hiss that came out garbled in static. “Warn me next time,” the bounty hunter gritted out. The hand holding the blaster re-holstered the weapon.

(That was a bad sign; the Mandalorian had forgotten he was there.)

“My apologies.” He meant it and added another note to the Mandalorian’s file: _personal space_. “I was merely wondering if you would allow me to recheck your wound again. I’m concerned your helmet may have absorbed some of the bacta-spray before it fully sealed the damage.” He was also concerned of the Mandalorian’s cognitive functions, but did not say anything regarding that.

There was silence. Then Mando said, “I already checked.”

The blood trickled down his neck. IG removed his optics to watch the man’s hands on the yokes. “If that is the case, may I request you describe the wound to me? Just a simple description will do.”

“Sealed, pink, puckered at edges.”

IG-11 considered that. Puckered edges was not good, but not bad either. It was most likely a side-effect of IG-11’s inability to properly decontaminate the open wound in the time limit of a burning building. The force of the hyper-jump must’ve torn the edges open. “Your neck is bleeding,” he reported instead.

The Mandalorian did not react instantaneously. Then one of his hands raised to the blood leaking down the back of his neck. It was hard to tell what his reaction was when he looked down at his crimson fingertips.

IG continued. “Your wound must have ripped open with the force of the jump. It is not a lot of blood, so it is minor.”

“Then it is no concern.” The Mandalorian returned his hand to the yoke, bloodstained and all.

IG suddenly had a question about the present hygiene of the Mandalorian’s ship. Now was not the time for that, though. “There is a concern.” He remarked instead. “You are exhausted and bleeding. You should rest.”

“It is fine,” the Mandalorian grunted, in a type of way that said, _wonderful, the droid is observant_. His grip on the steering yokes tightened as if the man thought IG was about to grab him by the armpits and hoist him out of the cockpit into bed. “How is the child?”

It was not lost on the IG unit that the man was attempting to avoid the subject of his exhaustion. Still, he looked over to where the kid was. The little one’s eyes were closed and body relaxed. “Sleeping.” He reported. “As you should be.”

“I am fine,” the Mandalorian snapped. However, as he snapped he turned around to look at him and that’s when the dizziness hit the man, right on cue. IG shot out and seized his shoulder before the man tipped over right into the controls and spiralled the ship.

“No, you are not,” he punctuated and sat the Mandalorian back up in his chair.

The Mandalorian made no noise but he swayed away from his grip, frustrated. IG watched and retracted his hands. _Stubborn_ Mandalorian, something in him chided. Another part considered how to best approach the situation. How was it that people were coerced into doing things they did not want to do? He consulted his protocols. The assassin secondary demanded, _intimidate_. The nursing insisted, _persuade._

IG was not very good at persuading organics into certain actions. Still, he decided to make an attempt. “If I may make a suggestion, Captain.”

“It’s Mando,” the man corrected.

Mando. A nickname. IG wrote that away. “If I then may make a suggestion, Mando.”

Clearly the Mandalorian expected him to go right into the suggestion, and sighed yet again when he did not. “You do not need my permission to speak,” and the man dismissed the notion as if silly with a wave of his hand. He was still swaying in his seat. “Go ahead.”

“You are tired and hurt still from Nevarro. I recommend we dock on Ore-1 and you retire to your quarters. Then we should focus on acquiring materials to make this ship more...child-friendly.” He reached out to tap on the nearest wall. The welding was solid but as he dragged his digit along, grease and dust came with it. “Mostly cleaning supplies.”

The Mandalorian looked at him. Then came a snort. “So I hire you, and you repay me by insulting my ship,” the warrior exhaled. Yet for all the offense the sentence should have contained, there was amusement in his weariness.

“Not your ship. You.” IG deadpanned again. The Mandalorian stared at him, a blank facade, and he considered his words. Ah. The man must’ve taken offense. “You take better care of your armour than your ship,” he clarified.

There was a silence long enough IG-11 considered the possibility that he had already gotten fired half a day on the job. “My ship is clean,” Mando finally stated.

The walls begged to differ, a small part of IG commented.

Mando still seemed offended though, so he added, “Forgive me if I am causing offense. I am merely concerned for the child’s health. I do not want them consuming...things they should not be.” He figured if he broke down what was in the Mandalorian’s cargo bay and how much of it was a threat to the kid, the Mandalorian would suffer even more cognitive failure from pure panic. “Subtlety is not my strong point.”

“I noticed.” The warrior reached over and flipped another switch. The engines primed the hyperdrive. IG did nothing. “The speeder-bike was not subtle.”

“That was necessary. You were about to die.” Mando was clearly growing more tired by the second so IG figured extending the conversation would lull the man to sleep. That would be more effective than attempting to persuade the man to sleep. He readied himself to start his first lesson in the art of bickering. “Your dramatics, however, are much worse than mine. The TIE fighter --”

“Was necessary, and you’re procrastinating, droid.” That had clear amusement, a ring in his voice.

Extending the conversation, then, was a failure. IG returned to being blunt. “I am merely trying to dissuade you from flying.”

Mando did not speak but in the pilot’s chair IG saw his shoulders slump. “I am fine,” the man repeated one last time, but this time a deep-rooted exhaustion did leak into his voice.

“No, you are not. Being shot, almost killed, then flung off a TIE fighter has crippled your cognitive functionality.” IG-11 looked over to the child, deep in sleep. He said quietly. “I am surprised at all that you are still conscious.”

“It takes much more than that to bring me down.”

Normally such a statement would be bluster, but this time IG-11 did not doubt the man’s sentence. The secondary coding in him was begrudgingly recognizing this man as a superior and high threat if tables were ever to turn on IG. He stayed quiet.

The man stared out into space. Then he asked almost softly, “Do you remember...him?”

He was about to ask who when his gaze caught on the Mandalorian staring down at the child, and he stalled. “No,” he responded.

“Not even that day?” The Mandalorian questioned. He sounded more out of it than IG recognized before; truly the past few days were catching up to him.

“Kuiil removed my black-box memories of who I was before.”

Mando took that without noise. Then he said, “So, nothing at all?”

There was a reason for this. No matter how slurred the Mandalorian’s voice was, there was a hidden clarity there that IG recognized as wanting something. He had an inkling of what the Mandalorian was hinting and answered the unspoken question. “No,” he replied. “I do not remember how you killed me.”

Mando did not freeze but his visor rose back to IG. “So you do know about that.” He said and it was a statement of challenge, of sudden hostility.

IG looked back, ever unflinching. “I do not take it personally, or remember what happened. I know I was a bounty hunter like you, Mando. I know I was,” _a killer, murderer, trained assassin,_ “Loyal to the Guild and the code. Now I have new directives. Kuiil was kind.”

What the Mandalorian really wanted to say came out next, almost contemplative despite its exhausted nature. “And if the Guild demands those protocols to come out again,” he stressed, “You will not answer them, correct? Or will I have to kill you again?”

IG observed the body language. “You are concerned for the child,” he concluded.

Din Djarin said nothing.

“It is alright. I understand your discomfort. You may find solace in the knowledge my initial programming has been overlapped by multitudes of code I’ve added.” He thought of something then, a loophole he had generated in his antics of reprogramming himself. “If it puts you at ease, I can place you as moderator of this unit. You will officially be recognized as the patron of my services.”

That was a sharp glare, even with the visor covering Mando’s eyes. “Then you’ll be a servant,” the warrior spat.

 _Servant_. IG was reminded of Kuiil’s dislike of the word master. Perhaps the Mandalorian was the same. He did dislike the term ‘Captain’, after all. “An assassin droid cannot be a servant.” He coerced. “The only thing that means is that your commands will be prioritized over the manufacturers. You will have control of this unit.”

“And what does that mean for you?”

He thought about that. “It means unless you send me away, I will be at your side.” He finally said.

The Mandalorian’s gaze was frigid on him. IG-11 had not concerned himself with the Mandalorian’s habits of watching people prior to Kuiil’s passing, but now held under Mando’s eyes, he considered the possibility that to others, that glare would be uncomfortable. He considered himself lucky that he could pinpoint that the Mandalorian was not angry towards him, but rather something else.

“It is pointless discussing this now, however.” He added, as the seconds passed and the Mandalorian’s mood seemed to sour worse. “I doubt you will remember this.”

Mando made a sound like disagreement. His hand was back on his neck. “Don’t underestimate me,” he said but it was a lazy challenge this time, like a dismissive shot at another person when both were almost passed out. “How – how’s the kid?”

He was repeating himself. IG decided enough was probably enough, and that this Mandalorian definitely needed rest, immediately. “You need to sleep,” he reiterated.

“I did not hire you to nag me,” Mando grumbled back. His voice was half-incoherent.

Something in him told him this conversation was most likely going to loop around in circles until the Mandalorian passed out. IG decided, perhaps physical actions would convince him better. He took another cautious step towards the man. The Mandalorian tensed, but did not lash out.

“Sleep will heal your body,” he added, perhaps a bit desperately.

“Sleep is not a professional medical assessment.”

“You may pass out while you are piloting.” He clasped his servos back together.

“I may pass out while I’m parking this ship,” the Mandalorian said back, then seemed to grimace as if recognizing the contradictory nature of his argument.

“If you pass out, I will take over piloting.”

The Mandalorian snapped around faster than obviously intended, nearly upsetting the piloting yokes in the process. “You’re registered?” The warrior said, jarred.

“No. But the previous owner of the piloting chip I programmed myself with is.” IG-11 stared at the almost contemplative look Mando’s visor emerged with, and stated, “I will pilot _only_ in emergencies. I am not registered and the ships I know how to pilot are mainstream vessels. Yours, however, is not --”

“Back to insulting my ship again.”

“-- mainstream, so I will require your assistance when you are coherent and not half-asleep,” IG-11 concluded. He finally took the last step and now he was hovering over the Mandalorian, a silent final threat. He did not intend to enforce the threat and he was aware the Mandalorian knew that, but the gesture was there all the same. “Mando.”

The hands twitched. Indecision plagued the man, and then he said, a final plea of protest, “The kid might still be in danger.”

“I do not require sleep. I will maintain watch while you rest.”

He reached out to shut the hyper drive off and waited for the Mandalorian’s disagreement. If the Mandalorian said no, then he would allow him to pilot. He was only a passenger and an employee; and besides, he had not earned the warrior’s trust. It had been so soon since the man killed him, after all.

There was no movement from Mando.

He switched the hyper drive off. The Mandalorian allowed him.

“Pull into Ore-1,” IG insisted and with a huff, his new friend listened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternative ending: baby yoda pilots.


	4. Observer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mandalorian rests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: the italicized bits are flashbacks

The child was restless when the rays of Ore-1’s suns spread over the launching pad. IG-11 watched them squirm and wiggle about in their bed; then, with a coo of obvious dislike, the kid began to shimmy their way out of the bed onto the ground. They had only begun to waddle in the direction of the Mandalorian’s room when IG intercepted. “He’s sleeping,” the droid told the kid, whose face was scrunched up at being interrupted. “It is still early, young one. You must go back to bed.”

The kid didn’t want to clearly. No sooner had he returned them to bed the kid was off again, wriggling their way down the side of the makeshift crib at an accelerated wobble. IG allowed them to waddle a little further before scooping them up again. This time the kid warbled in protest. “You cannot wake Mando,” he told the annoyed face. “He is resting. You should be too.”

The third time the kid just leapt out of bed and started across the floor at a furious scoot. IG sighed and bent down one more time. “Are you hungry?” He asked the kid.

That got a response. The kid paused and one beady black eye eyed him suspiciously. So perhaps the child did have some responses to verbal dialogue. Good to know.

IG gestured. “Come. Let’s get you fed, little one.”

The kid pouted, but as IG rose to turn to move downstairs, he heard tiny footsteps follow him.

 _Smart little one_ , he thought warmly.

The search for food was inevitably a waste of time. The Mandalorian seemed to have stocked his ship only with perishables and while IG-11 was equipped with the knowledge required to sustain over 6000 different species, _freeze-dry packets_ were not nutritional or healthy for the kid. On the other hand there was plenty of water and as IG poked through the ice-box, he noticed a bottle set to the side. Opening it he scanned and noted the contents contained freeze-dry powder mixed with water. A quick fix milk then, designed for space travel.

 _Ad’ika,_ read the front.

He set the bottle down. “Your father has no idea what he’s doing,” he said.

The kid chirped back, probably agreeing.

“I suspect the other boxes are like this too,” IG continued, turning an optic to the remainder of the room. The kid followed his gaze as if understanding. “Your father is a very skilled warrior but I suspect he is as new as you are to the relationship the both of you have forged. I suppose that is where I come in.” A pause. “I never expected to become a babysitter,” he told them with humour.

_Ad’ika._

“Ore-1 must have places to buy stock,” he noted. Why he was narrating to the child he did not know, but the kid seemed to be following his voice so he continued. “Until then, I suppose this will tide you over.”

He lowered the bottle to the kid. The kid, greedily, latched onto it.

“Slowly now,” he cautioned them and began to brush their ears soothingly as they drank.

* * *

The Mandalorian was still fast asleep when he brought the kid up from storage. Tired from milk they lulled against his shoulder and IG-11 was about to return them to their bed when they stirred. A soft cry emerged and they opened their eyes halfway to reach out for the Mandalorian’s room.

IG paused. “You want your father,” he hummed. “But he is resting. I can only bring you to him if his helmet is on and you’re very, very quiet, you understand?” They probably did not but they shushed as soon as he pivoted to peek into the Mandalorian’s quarters. The man laid motionless, and IG saw strands of messy hair covered by one bandage in the dark of the room.

He knocked. The man shifted. “It has been fifteen hours,” he said through the door’s crack. “I apologize for not letting you rest longer, but the child wishes to see you and I’d rather you wake to my voice than his screaming.”

There was no response but one of the Mandalorian’s hands moved to take the helmet and place it on. Then, in a gruff, sleep-laced voice Din spoke. “Alright.”

He entered. The child squealed upon seeing Din and squirmed; as soon as he set them down on the bed the kid plopped forward into the Mandalorian’s lap, hands clutching the undershirt of the warrior. A coo, and then they snuggled closer. One of the Mandalorian’s hands fell onto their head and began to caress back and forth gently.

IG-11 felt that he was already intruding standing here. “I will leave him in your care,” he said and turned back to the door.

“Stay,” the Mandalorian ordered back, just as quiet. He stalled. “Have they been fed?”

“With milk, yes. I chide you on the food selection your ship contains.”

The Mandalorian stifled a huff. “Bounty hunting means travelling light.”

“And yet you take me along.” 

Another huff. IG-11 turned back, and a part of him regretted how loud his chassis whined in the room at the movement. Yet the Mandalorian did not seem bothered too much, continuing to cradle the child. Perhaps then the concussion had taken its toll on the man’s personality as well.

(or he was pleased by IG’s actions, but IG-11 was not one to dwell on probabilities)

“Is that all?” He asked.

Din said nothing for a moment. Then the man tucked the kid into his side (who was sleeping, IG noted with fondness, how quickly kids shut their eyes) and removed his helmet. His eyes met IG, then looked away. “I would ask you a favour.”

“Which is?”

“Stay.” Din requested quietly. “Ore-1 is dangerous and I’d rather you here than elsewhere. For the child.”

IG absorbed that. Then he said, “To guard, then.”

“To nurse and protect,” Din replied. 

How dangerous words were when thrown back towards you. IG-11 thought: _wise father, wise child._

"Of course." He said back. "Sleep, Mando."

Din leaned back and in soon time, he too was asleep.

* * *

It was quiet in the moments that followed.

He did not mean to watch. Kuiil hadn’t liked it when he observed the Ugnaught’s sleeping patterns, told him it was impersonal and disturbing to wake up to IG’s glowing lights hovering over him. IG assumed it had to do more with his past with the Galactic Empire, but noted it away anyways. Comparing notes with the Mandalorian’s case file had him drawing the same conclusion that Din would dislike being watched during sleep.

Though he could not wrestle his optics away from the two, no matter how much he knew Din would dislike it. There was a tranquility in their posture that was distracting. The bond between father and son was strong in the room.

He noted.

Din cradled the child as if a lifeline, a fragment too precious to be truly holding. His hands did not truly touch the kid, skirted the edges of the small body and clutched into the blankets. Even asleep his body seemed rigid, frozen in fear of crushing the kid. He would regret that come awakening.

 _Ad’ika_ had no qualms about being crushed though. Their grip on Din’s shirt was like a closed steel trap, fingers clenching into the fabric and refusing to let go. Crunched against Din they laid limp and if it was an organic watching, they would most likely assume the kid had died. Yet they breathed steadily. 

The unit known as IG-11 leaned back and rotated his optic. Then, as if to breathe, he exhaled a stream of steam. For a second, he thought he felt hope.

Then it was swallowed by a sense of duty and he looked away.

Guard.

* * *

Minutes turned to hours.

Kuiil would have liked the quiet.

* * *

Perhaps in the quiet he could reflect, dig around some more in his programming. It would improve efficiency.

Or he could dig through memories again.

IG-11 rotated his optic again.

Guard.

* * *

Guard,

Guard,

Guard.

What was his programming?

Nurse and protect.

Kill and destroy.

Obey.

Guard.

* * *

_You know, you're_

_not so_

_bad. For a_

_droid._

_There is_

_nothing to_

_Be sad about._

_I have_

_never been_

_alive._

_Manufacturers' protocol dictates I_

_cannot be captured.  
_

_self-destruct._

_do not_

_do not self_

_do not self destruct_

* * *

He found nothing of interest in his buried files.

* * *

The Mandalorian woke up two hours later. He could only tell by the shifting of the pillow, a sound of moving fabric and then Din’s voice said, “Ow.” Turning around he saw the man flat on his back with his helmet on, gentle around the kid. He was craning his neck back and forth. Fingers pressed against the wound.

Speaking of which. IG glanced at the child, then back at Din. “May I take a glance at your wound?” He asked.

Mando brushed his fingers alongside the child’s ears, then sat up. “Are they still asleep?” He asked gently.

“Yes.”

Raising one hand the Mandalorian slowly took his helmet off. His eyes were still as nervous as before, but there was a relaxed nature to his shoulders. IG-11 moved behind the man to kindly peel the bandage back and eye the wound. It was not festering, nor split anymore. The medication had done its work. 

“It is healing. It should be gone by tomorrow.” He reported. “Hold still.”

The Mandalorian stiffened. IG parted his hair away from the wound and began to reapply the bacta-spray, noting how the touch caused slight shifts in the posture. He hurried his work, lest he be causing discomfort. 

“Thanks, again,” the man said eventually. His voice was raw.

> \-- y _ou know, you're not so bad._

The spray shut off, disrupted. He reset his optic, then turned it back on. “It is no worry,” he said after a moment. Then, he added, “There is another thing. I would ask permission to leave the ship.”

He could not see the Mandalorian's face but could feel his gaze all the same. On the bed, the kid was still asleep, dead to the world. “You quit already? I didn’t think the lil’ rat would get to you so fast.”

“No. The child was a darling this morning.” Now the man turned and he watched Din’s eyebrows go up. So his choices of words caused disbelief. He would have to note that for when the kid was a demon. “I would ask permission so that I could go shopping.”

“Shopping.” 

“Yes. I’m aware I will make an odd…impression on the citizens here. But this ship requires supplies."

“I am coming along.”

IG-11 reflected on the stupidity of that. He was polite though and when he spoke next it was only with a fraction of the deadpan that deserved. “An IG-series bounty hunter unit and a Mandalorian step out of a ship,” he noted. "Ore-1 will think we are invaders.”

“It will be none of their business,” Din said back.

Which was also a good point but IG wanted to avoid fights when the child was around, even though he knew the two of them combined probably could overpower a great deal of opponents. Two days ago had witnessed enough of that. “And the kid?” 

Din’s mouth twitched. Then he said, “You can carry him.”

“Irony may escape me, but I am aware I am the embodiment of a walking target.” IG-11 retorted. “In 81% of scenarios the droid is _always_ the one first fired at.”

“Do not recite your probabilities at me.”

“Must I remind you of the glint of your beskar,” IG hummed back.

Now Din ducked his head, though he was not quick enough and IG-11 saw the briefest of concealed amusement. “Then we’re landing on the next planet to resupply,” he insisted. “That will be better.”

"As you wish.” The child was still sleeping, though at the Mandalorian’s fidgeting IG noted that the movements would most likely wake them up. “Stay still."

"And the droid gives the orders to his captain now."

“Doctor’s orders, mostly.”

"Quiet."

IG-11 quieted for a second. Then he remarked, "I thought you disliked the title of captain."

“ _Droids_ ,” Din huffed and it was dry amusement.

IG had a feeling he'd be hearing that a lot in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ig-11 remembering a little bit of previous him memories: eh nah that was nothing, tis but the wind


	5. Shopping, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IG-11 tries to run an errand. Things do not go according to plan.

The planet the Mandalorian ended up picking was a small moon off the edge of a large gas giant, all swirls of brown and gold lands as they drew near. Upon closer inspection when they had landed it was mostly dry fields, a few water towers sticking up like jagged black blades on the horizon. The inhabitants looked just as friendly. IG-11 eyed them dubiously as they disembarked, but none made any indication of hostility and so his suspicions remained without proof. 

He still made his objections quite clear as he passively followed the Mandalorian and the child down the ramp. "I am more than capable of handling this myself," he protested. "You should stay on the Crest with the child."

The complaints landed on deaf ears. "What do you need me to buy?" Din asked.

IG-11 re-examined the futility of his protests, then begrudgingly conceded. "Food, for one," he answered, bending down to make sure the child was safe in their cradle. "Your ship is outfitted with freeze-dry ingredients, not food suitable for a child."

"Then what do I need?"

"Eggs," IG-11 said. 

The Mandalorian paused in his stride. IG was certain he was being side-eyed through the helmet's visor, but Din only carried on. "Any particular kind?"

"Soft. Any soft food is preferable, actually." He mused on that, then added, "Though I would recommend avoiding anything from Tatooine."

"Tatooine? You didn't strike me as one with bias."

"It's not," IG clarified. "Numerous medical files in my database recommend it."

Din huffed. They were talking too loud, IG noticed then; many citizens and tourists of the town were glancing at them now, blatantly interested in the sight of an IG-unit and shiny Mandalorian bickering at the foot of the Razor Crest. Casually he straightened himself from his hunch over the cradle, eyeing the few who were close. Din noticed that; his hand drew closer to his blaster and the few onlookers scattered without a word. 

_This would not end well_ , IG thought. An IG-unit and a Mandalorian were not friendly company, especially side-by-side. His processor drew a compromise that benefited him the most. “If you are insistent on coming along, I would recommend we split up,” he said. “I had other priorities to attend to as well as restock your ship. Cleaning supplies, for one.”

“You can buy that following me.” 

Ah. IG considered his words very carefully. “I cannot. There is more I meant to attend to.”

Din glanced at him over his shoulder. “Like?”

“I intended to buy myself equipment.” 

His ambiguity was too noticeable. Din huffed. “You are being vague again,” the man noted. 

IG-11 caved. “I wished to restock my supply of ammunition and buy new weapons,” he said delicately. 

Dirt scuffed. The Mandalorian fully turned to look at him, loose shoulders but one hand twitching towards his blaster. That was the reaction IG had anticipated and the secondary algorithms calculated escape routes between the alleys of the town. “With what credits?” was all Din asked, voice dangerously gentle.

IG’s mainframe struggled for a moment, grappling with words to accurately describe his dilemma. “I can afford the new equipment,” he told Din. “It seems that my previous designation was compiling credits. For what purposes has been lost to me, but I have access to his accounts and therefore, savings.”

Din absorbed that. Then he asked, "What type of equipment?"

"Unknown." IG-11 considered his hands then. "I am assuming I will know it when I see it. Until then, I suppose I am doing what you organics call...window-shopping."

The Mandalorian’s hand did not move. "I thought you still had your blasters.”

"I do." IG hesitated now. "You must forgive me for what may seem like an overindulgence. It is just...those blasters are _right_ , but they are also...wrong."

The Mandalorian’s head tilted. What expression he fixed IG with was unreadable, but IG detected he had his full attention. "What do you mean, wrong?" 

"I am wielding the blasters of a dead droid," IG-11 clarified. "I do not know their history, but I do know they unsettle you. I also know there is a high probability I will continually use them protecting the child while in your service. I am...compromising, so to speak.”

Din took a step forward. “What are you saying?” The bounty hunter demanded.

“Mando, I do not wish to see you flinch every time I fire those rifles,” IG said.

Silence. Din seemed to be at a loss what to say. IG waited patiently for the Mandalorian to decide, already ready to oblige following the man through the town. It would not be too much a loss if he could not purchase new equipment. His rifles were in perfect condition, after all. 

Din finally spoke. “Fine,” he relented.

IG-11 absorbed that, reflected on it. That was...surprising. "Curious,” was what he ended up saying. “No final objections?”

The Mandalorian waved him off. "No, it's fine. Go. Buy some new toys. But you better be back here by dark," he added before IG-11 could fully absorb his newfound freedom. "I'm not buying you off scrappers. Kriff, I doubt I could patch you back together if scrappers got ahold of you."

"Understood, Mando. I will try to be back before dark." Before they could split however, IG had another request. "You must tell me something then," he said as he drew back. "Will the child be safe in your care?"

Silence. He eyed the Mandalorian carefully, quietly. 

"The child is safe in my care," Din replied.

His primary coding relaxed like a lock being unlatched. IG-11 rotated his optics. "At five then."

"No later,” Din warned.

“Yes, yes,” IG-11 replied and turned into the closest alley. As a parting remark he added, “Droids are punctual, after all.”

He was almost certain Din snorted in reply.

* * *

It did not take him long to locate cleaning supplies. A vendor at a corner-store was able to help him out, allowing him to stack a carton of various material and haul it back to the Razor Crest before she asked for payment. (Granted, IG-11 assumed it was his physical exterior that prompted that kindness, not her character.) It was much harder to locate an arms-dealer. He lingered around the canteen for half an hour listening in on conversations and locals before spotting a shipment of rifles being escorted through the streets by two guards -- a Duros and a human. Both were armed with twin blasters, safeties unlocked.

That was much more promising than the canteen. IG-11 drew away from his isolated spot against the canteen’s wall, making his way outside to the street. Before he was able to get there, however, a blaster cracked. The human on the left suddenly staggered, a hole burned through her shoulder. IG-11’s nursing protocols primed but before he could do anything the street was suddenly filled with unknown assailants, bandages wrapped around their faces. All were armed. IG-11 counted ten. Some looked young. Others were lean and relaxed, malnourished individuals IG knew would cause trouble.

“Give up the crate,” one sneered at the two guards. “You’re outmatched.”

The human on the ground cocked her blaster. She was knocked prone though and IG determined she had little maneuverability in her current state. The Duros fared much better chances on his feet. Still, both had little chance of surviving. “Go to hell,” the alien shot back anyways. “That’s my paycheck you’re taking, asshole.”

“Come-on, Fed, old buddy. Is it worth dying for?” The bandit snapped back.

The Duros presumably named Fed hesitated. IG-11 trained his optics on the alien guard, musing on whether or not he should intervene. The Mandalorian had not forbidden him from interacting with local affairs. Yet he was out of his depth, he understood. There were ten raiders -- a feat the hunter in him chided as foolishness, as one unarmed droid against them would only result in self-destruction. Yet the nursing components argued. He had the element of surprise on his side. And the lady guard was dying. If he turned away now he would be breaking the nursing code of conduct.

But he had no weapon.

IG-11 scanned his surroundings. There was little that could help him at first glance -- a food vendor stood frozen across him, kitchen knife in hand but the secondary protocols warned that it was a flimsy weapon. Likewise, it also warned against stealing a blaster of the canteen’s patrons. _Both those actions would do more harm than good if you want those two alive_ , it hissed.

It was then IG-11 noticed the shovel.

It was a large, wicked thing. A mining tool most likely for the handle was reinforced durasteel like himself and built for high strain. IG-11 weighed it with his optics and calculated the likelihood of its usefulness as a weapon, not its intended purpose.

It would do.

He did not pause to reflect further, for the Duros' hesitation outside was turning hostile. The hunter capabilities primed; he snatched the shovel up (hefty weight, accommodating) and as a voice called, “Hey, _hey_ ,” he marched out of the canteen and into the street. The first bandit did not have time to react. IG swung -- the shovel connected with a wicked _crack_ and the raider went down to never come back up.

By then the two guards had started firing too. The Duros took down two bandits gawking at their fallen friend, while the human’s shot went wide and skirted the top of some buildings. IG marched between their blasts and seized the closest raider by the throat, squeezing once. The snap echoed; their friend made a choked noise and finally fired their blaster. The shot ricocheted off IG's plating and nearly hit the duros. The duros answered with a similar shot and the raider went down, smoking.

The rest of the group got the hint. All scattered, blaster shots following their fleeing footsteps. IG-11 followed their retreat until he could see them no more -- and still he waited a few moments to analyze for shots in windows and entrances alike. Only then he dropped the shovel’s bloody form, watching it drip onto the sidewalk. 

He felt the violence then, thrumming through him just as it had in Nevarro. Yet this time it brought no satisfaction to him, no reminders of his original purpose. Instead, the same feeling of frustration he felt when training under Kuiil had risen in his processor. _Sloppy,_ the hunter in him seethed and IG-11 agreed. The shot almost killed the duros, the one he intended to protect. Charge casualties were the mark of an inefficient hunter.

Still, what was done was done. IG-11 made a mental note to study his failure later. “Are you alright?” He asked and turned to the guards.

He was faced with the duros’s blaster. 

Ah. IG-11 should have anticipated the hostility. Another failure on his part, then. “Please put that down,” he said and held up his empty hands. “I mean no harm.”

“Like hell you do,” the lady said back from the ground. She was aimed at him too, although IG anticipated her shot would go wide yet again. “What’s your serial, IG-unit?”

“I mean no harm to you. I am IG-11, a nursing droid,” he replied. “I have been equipped with assisting tools.” He gestured to her wound then. “Please, allow me.”

The two exchanged a disbelieving glance. But IG could read the indecision written all over the duros’s face and it was not unexpected when Fed asked, “You can help her?”

The lady groaned. “Fed, you can’t seriously be --”

“You’re gonna bleed out at this rate,” Fed snapped back. He got closer and put the blaster’s tip right against his helm. IG-11 let him, although his hunter protocols pinged at him to disarm the duros. “You heal her, y’hear me? No funny business,” the alien told him. His voice was trembling. “One wrong move and I’ll put one right through.”

IG waited. Eventually Fed started pushing him towards the human and he let the alien guide him, passively following the guard until he was right next to her. Then he knelt and only then did he hesitate. “I’m taking the spray out now,” he warned her. “This will sting a bit.”

“Bullshit,” she scoffed back.

Alright. That seemed close enough to a yes for him. IG primed the spray and it slowly emerged from his servo; the human’s eyes ogled and she had just enough time to clench her teeth before he sprayed the fine mist over the wound. Only then did she grunt and seize up, and IG counted ten seconds before the pain negated.

“I’ll be damned,” Fed said behind him. The blaster drew away from his helm and IG’s rear sensors indicated the duros was backing up, one hand pressed to his head in shock. “It is a nursing droid. Aren’t you guys all hunters?”

“I suppose I am unique,” IG-11 said and drew the spray away. The wound was sealed shut now by a thin membrane and would heal quite nicely. Standing back up, he offered a hand to the lady. “Go for a bacta tank dunk later," he instructed. "The seal will stop bleeding for another forty-eight hours. If you are lucky it might even regenerate the skin. Yet I tell you again, go for a tank dunk at a nearby hospital or establishment. You do not want the skin to start growing inwardly and seal up wrong."

“Son of a slaggin’ grutchin,” the human said back but took his hand. He hoisted her up and for her credit, she didn’t snatch her hand back when she was on her feet. “You’re legit.”

IG-11 let her hand go. He was close enough to read her work-tag now. _Ire_ , it read in small print. “Your allusion escapes me,” he noted. “I am not a legitimate medical professional.”

“No, I mean -- shit,” and the guard ran a hand through her hair. “You’re IG-11? You didn’t say you were a medical droid six months ago when you visited before.”

That was...unanticipated. IG-11 reset his optics, ran the audio through his processor again. Sure enough, he had heard her correctly. “Six months?”

“Yeah, about that -- that’s around the time Boss put you on the blacklist, at least.” The lady named Ire seemed to realize what she said and closed her mouth with a snap. She looked to the duros, who was suddenly examining the safety of his blaster with keen interest. “I mean, not that you’re blacklisted but, uh.”

Curiosity rose. “I was not aware I was here previously,” IG-11 told the two. “I was recently reprogrammed, with prior memories erased. What exactly was I blacklisted for?”

“I’m not sure,” Ire said back. Her brow was creased now. “Wait though, you’re reprogrammed? You don’t work for the Guild no more?”

“No. I have new charges to care for. Which is why I require an arms-dealer,” IG-11 said. “My equipment is currently unacceptable. Do you mind if I tag along your transport to your supplier?”

The two spoke at the same time. “Yes,” Fed agreed just as Ire said, “No way.” They then glared at one another and IG-11 got the impression perhaps these two knew each other outside the workspace. 

“We can’t,” Ire continued, mostly a hiss. “The blacklist says clear enough.”

“Come on,” the duros objected. “He did save our asses. The hole in your arm is proof enough he ain’t some slag-eater.”

“But you know how she gets,” Ire argued. “We bring the droid there, we’ll get fired.”

“Then we tell her he’s changed. She’s a sucker for sob stories.”

IG-11 waited with mild interest, his files reminded faintly of Jawwas arguing over broken scrap. “Well?” He asked when they seemed to stop their bickering, glowering at one another like children. “May I accompany you?”

“Fine,” Ire said. “But this is going to end poorly, I’m telling you.”

* * *

Din Djarin heard the first blaster-shot when it went off in the street, although he was neck-deep in purchasing the store’s supply of formula and soft foods. His body reacted before his mind -- blaster unlatched he stepped outside, aiming down the sights before realizing there was nothing to hit. The shots were far-off, back in the direction of the Crest, and as the Mandalorian listened closer he realized it was erratic, nervous firing. 

He stood there for a moment. The sound of a few more shots echoed through the street, then faded into a murmur. The tourists and locals alike kept frozen for moments, before a collective shrug seemed to run over the crowd and business, tentatively, resumed. 

When he re-entered the shop, his transaction was where he left it. The shopkeeper waved off his apology as if used to it. “Eh, that happens often. Just canteen nonsense,” she grumbled at him. “You want a bag?”

Din nodded his assent, although his mind was quite far away. Something had come over him then, like a sense of forewarning he shouldn’t have ignored the moment he stepped off the ship. For some reason, it had IG-11’s voice. _Shouldn’t have split up,_ it nagged him. _Trouble._

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he told the child as they exited the shop.

The child, contently oblivious, gurgled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAN university has been killing me, apologies for the delay! I've also just finished Season 2 so fair warning, I'm heading down the path of its plot. Beware spoilers, although obviously it is going to be majorly different in how it unravels due to IG-11's presence. 
> 
> Another note: there will be ocs in this story, although they're fairly minor and mostly background noise. For this story I'm using them to world-build, nothing too fancy with them in regards to the plot. 
> 
> Next up: Din realizes leaving IG-11 to his own devices was, indeed, a very bad idea.


End file.
